She single-mindedly roams cobblestone lanes
narrow and shaded by awnings,
defiantly gliding past the catcalls and gropes
of underbred boors
instantly crazed by her fragrance.
Darkling hours oversee
the last churning spits of grilled lamb,
moist chunks rubbed with sage and parsley,
whose whiffed aroma overpowers
and halts her in her tracks,
a brief yet defensible pause
in her urgent search for caliphs in disguise.